


High Expectations

by Disturbot



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Blackmail, Blow Jobs, Dubious Consent, F/M, Homophobia, Implied/Referenced Cheating, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Multi, Open Marriage, Sex Club, Threesome, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-10
Updated: 2019-09-29
Packaged: 2020-06-26 03:03:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19759264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Disturbot/pseuds/Disturbot
Summary: Investigating in a sex club with Sherlock, the last person John expected to find there was Lestrade, and he's obviously not there on duty, so he does his best to sneak the poor D.I. out before Sherlock sees him, only he ends up getting more than he bargained for.





	1. Unthinkable

John beat a rapid retreat from that last room Sherlock had dragged him into. He had always thought he would follow him anywhere during a case, even through hell, but tonight, he found out he drew the line at a public orgy. Sherlock might be immune to all the nudity and sex around them, but John was not made of stone and he was well out of his comfort zone. Even here, in the meeting area near the bar, where people had more clothes and less intercourse, John wasn’t at ease, not sure where to look, because he didn’t want anyone to mistake his innocent gaze for interest. He’d already been propositioned a couple of time, but given he and Sherlock were here looking for a murderer, or murderess, he’d obviously turned down the offers, as politely as he could, even when he was being groped and trying not so subtly to squirm away from the grabby hands.

Finally, he made it to a corner, not a dark one because those were occupied, and noisy, but here, under one of the rare lamps, he thought he should be safe enough, a small island of peace surrounded by horny sharks. John felt like banging his head against the wall for letting Sherlock talk him into accompanying him here. He thought of making up any excuse to leave, but the sooner they found their suspect, the sooner they could leave. God forbid they had to come back _another_ night… John wasn't sure he would survive it. It was not that he was disgusted by the sex club or anything. He was actually surprised by how tasteful it was, despite the hairy asses and wrinkled balls, but if he had to be honest, everything about the place was turning him on, and his jeans chafing against his semi-erect cock was unbearable. He didn't usually let himself get so worked up, but between work at the clinic and Sherlock’s string of cases, he hadn’t been able to get a leg over in what felt like forever. Hell, he had hardly had time to take care of himself under the shower a couple of days ago before Sherlock burst in for a toothpaste emergency, whatever that was, and here he was in the middle of all these willing bodies. Brushing against him, touching, offering… Talk about temptation. He was close to bursting.

Shaking off that thought, John leaned against the wall, and got his libido back under control through sheer strength of will, then resumed his surveillance of the club’s patrons: too young, too old, too pretty, too rich… he had to admit Sherlock had trained him well and he was sort of amazed their suspect fit so little criterias. He, or she, should be _easy_ to find. John almost dismissed the next arrivals, too old, when his brain stalled, because what he should have registered first was _too bloody familiar._

There, staring right back at him with a horrified expression on his paler than usual face, was Lestrade. Bollocks. He was not here for work then. And that woman next to him had to be his wife, because as much as she cheated on him, he would never cheat on her. In any case, John had to tell him to get out before Sherlock saw him. Poor Lestrade would never live it down if the news got out, and it was bound to come out sooner or later in one of Sherlock’s vitriolic rants. The consulting detective wouldn’t mean to out his secret, but he would. Out of anger, annoyance, or spite, the DI visiting a sex club would be thrown into one of his rants between his wife's infidelity and how much cigarettes he had already smoked that day. Yarders being the worst of gossips, news would get around faster than a flash fire and his career would be compromised, which really wouldn't be fair because the DI was one of the good ones, despite anything Sherlock had to say on the matter. 

Pushing off the wall, John weaved through the crowd and pulled Lestrade into a corner where he wouldn't be so visible while his wife had her attention drawn elsewhere.

“You’re on a case, aren’t you?” Lestrade hissed.

“Sorry.”

“Sherlock?”

“Not far. You have to leave right now.”

“Easier said than done,” he grumbled.

“The wife?”

Lestrade rolled his eyes.

“This is her idea of saving our marriage-” he cut himself short when the woman in question returned.

Now that he got a closer look, John had to admit she was a real looker, the sort of woman any man in their right mind would think twice about approaching. But the way she was undressing him with her eyes, from head to crotch, while completely ignoring her husband, is what made John really uncomfortable.

“Well, Greg, I’ve got to admit you have good taste.”

Comprehension dawned. Of course she would think Greg was chatting him up. What were the chances of him meeting someone he knew from work in such a place?

“Actually, I’m not-”

Lestrade stepped on his toes, then discreetly shook his head. He probably didn't want the embarrassment of telling her they did know each other either. Okay, John could understand that. It was already awkward enough without adding to it. He could work around it. 

“I mean… I don’t do couples,” John lied apologetically.

“That’s fine, you can just do me.”

John choked at the way she said that without missing a beat, without a second thought for her husband who was standing right there next to her. John ventured a glance at the DI and he looked like he’d bitten a lemon. John couldn’t believe the poor guy was married to such a bitch, nor why he was putting himself through this to save his marriage. It might work for some couples, if they were both into this kind of scene and on the same page, but the DI was obviously more uncomfortable than anything else.

“Don’t insist, Jenny. If he-”

His wife huffed, cutting him off.

“See, that's your problem, Greg, you give up too easily,” she harped on and John simply couldn't believe the reasonable DI he had always known was putting up with her bullshit.

“But he-”

His wife cut him off once more, but Lestrade’s eyes had strayed towards the crowd at the bar and he paled considerably, as if he had just seen a ghost. John had a pretty good idea of who he had actually seen, and before he knew it, Lestrade had pushed both him and his wife in the closest private room and locked the door behind him.

“See,” Jenny purred as her hands began to linger over him without so much as a by-your-leave. “That's much better.”

John tensed under her fingers because Lestrade was standing right there in front of him with a frightening scowl while his wife's breasts were now pushed up against his back. Awkward didn't even begin to describe what he was feeling.

“I- I really don’t do couples, Ma’am. I'll just leave. I can find someone more suitable for your… ah… needs, if you want.”

But she wasn't stopping, far from it, her hands sliding down his body to fondle him. John jumped out of her reach and instinctively went to hide behind Lestrade for cover. Talk about a fucked up situation. Worse was that John was trying to hide the bulge in his pants. What? It had been a real long time since anyone has touched him that way, and despite everything being so very wrong about this situation, he couldn't refrain from being aroused by another's touch, not even that of a bloody cheating harpy.

“Sorry Ma’am. I meant I don't do ladies, no offense.”

The lie was outrageous, but John didn't care. He had to try something, anything to put a stop to her advances. Unfortunately, she laughed at him, because she wasn't dupe. She knew. She had felt him react to her caresses. 

“Fine then. Help yourself,” she said with a wave towards her husband and a knowing smirk, daring him to keep up his gay pretence.

Lestrade took a step towards his wife, squaring his shoulders. John sagged in relief because he was out of ammo against his Mrs. 

“Jenny, you know I don't-”

And the harpy was back. Belittling her husband, without a care that a perfect stranger could hear every work, and probably everyone else walking by their door. To make matters worse, if she kept up her screeches, Sherlock was going to notice the commotion and come investigate for himself. Knowing the consulting detective, he would just barge in, too. So John had to shut her up, and quick.

John pulled on Greg's arm and turned him around to face him, pressing his lips to his before he could realize what he had planned.

It worked. His wife had shut up as sure as if John had slapped her, but Lestrade was stiff as a board and completely unresponsive. That was the downside of not letting him in on his plan, and John would probably never know what compelled him to continue once his aim had been accomplished, but he would later blame the environment, the spur of the moment and Mrs Lestrade for getting him all worked up. 

So John pulled the inspector closer and gently bit his bottom lip, giving him some tongue when he gasped in surprise. Slowly, John coaxed him into deepening the kiss. It was a bit weird, the size difference and the stubble, but Lestrade was a surprisingly good kisser once he let his guard down, just rough enough that his cock swelled that much more in interest. John groaned at the sensation. He was so horny right now, he would fuck Lestrade if he let him, and damn the consequences. Hell, he would even let Lestrade fuck him. To think he had still been pretty sure when he woke up that morning that he wasn't gay… And maybe Lestrade was feeling just as confused, because he suddenly pushed him up against the wall, their bodies pressed together and… Oh God! He couldn't believe he was doing this with Lestrade. 

It was hot. 

John had had fantasies about Sherlock before. Who wouldn't? The man was prettier than most of the women he had dated. But this was so much more intense than anything he had ever imagined. Better yet, Lestrade seemed to be enjoying himself too, judging by the hardness he could feel pressed against his belly. Or so he thought, until he noticed his wife had joined in on the fun, so John couldn't even take credit for that.

On the bright side, she was finally taking care of her husband. About time she realized what she was lucky enough to have already. John reluctantly broke off the kiss, his lips puffy from all the snogging. Lestrade looked down at him, face flushed and eyes hooded until his wife pulled him away, towards the bed, or lounging couch, or whatever that weird piece of furniture lying in the middle of the room was called. This seemed like the best moment to scamper off, so John tried the door. Locked. Right. Lestrade had locked it, but where was the key? He was pretty sure he had left it in the lock.

“Over here, gorgeous,” Jenny called.

John turned around with dread. The Mrs was not to be underestimated. She showed him the key, waving it like bait at the end of a fishing line, trying to reel him in. He didn’t have much of a choice though, so he walked up to her to retrieve it. He would have expected a trap, but John was still scandalized when she plunged her hand into her cleavage to hide the key. She had that damn smirk on her face again, daring him to take the key from her.

John glanced at Lestrade in bewilderment, but he was sprawled over the couch-bed with his shirt half undone and an obvious hard on. Poor guy merely shrugged as if to say “That’s what she does. What can you do?” No, there was no help to be had there. With no other choice left, John plunged his hand down her blouse, biting his lip at the feel of her soft breast squishing his fingers. He felt around until he brushed cold, hard metal and curled his fingers around it, intent on beating a rapid retreat, but before he could retrieve his hand, Jenny used her cleavage much like a bear-trap and pulled him in for a kiss. He hated being so aroused by everything, from his kiss with Lestrade and Jenny’s breasts and sweet lips that he didn’t fight it immediately, but soon, he remembered exactly who this was, and how much she hurt and continued to hurt Lestrade. He stumbled back, still holding the key and all but ran to the door without a backwards glance.

John staggered out of the private room and into the main meeting area, looking so completely dishevelled and shocked that a few people chuckled at his sudden appearance, which, of course, brought him to the attention of Sherlock.

“John! What happened? Were you attacked? Was it our suspect?”

John shook his head. Sherlock’s concern was sweet, and unexpected, all things considered, but John thought he had to be in a bit of a shock because he couldn’t string two words together, and his friend was insistent.

“Are you…” Sherlock hesitated, looking him up and down. “Sick?”

His friend might be an expert on most things, but reading how someone felt was not one of them, and he got it wrong more often than not if it was not as blatant as anger or fear. It was a great idea to get out of this place though, so John wasn’t going to dissuade him of that notion. He needed to get out, and Lestrade needed the coast clear for when he was… finished. An image of him and his wife fucking flashed through his mind’s eye and he winced at how uncomfortable his pants were getting. Bit not good. He was going to need a good, long wank as soon as he got home. He had just enough wits about him to send Lestrade a text informing him they had left.


	2. Unforgettable

No need to say, John refused to accompany Sherlock back to that sex club the following night. He trusted Lestrade was smart enough not to return either. Not for a while at least. He did his best not to think about the Lestrade after that night, putting the whole thing behind him, but John was the idiot for not realizing sooner he would have to face the DI again one of these days. It came about too soon in his opinion, just a week later, when John still blushed regularly from the memory of what  _ had _ happened, what  _ could _ have happened… 

Upon entering the crime scene, John was careful to stay in Sherlock’s shadow, but when the consulting detective leaned over the corpse with his magnifying glass, deducing it to bits, John had nowhere to hide. He couldn’t look Lestrade in the eye, though, so he kept his gaze resolutely on his shoes. He could feel the DI’s eyes on him however, and he was thankful Sherlock was too enthralled with the corpse to notice anything amiss. It could have stayed at that, and John would have been fine pretending nothing had ever happened between them. Mostly. There had been a massive shift in his perception of sex since that night, and his porn collection would never be the same.

However, Lestrade had another idea entirely because he sought him out as soon as Sherlock had wandered off after Anderson to make sure he collected the samples properly this time. The DI must have balls the size of Jupiter to come talk to him, an image John could have done without because it immediately brought to mind his hard cock pressing against him and it was all he could focus on now. Blushing, cursing under his breath, John kept his eyes down.

“John.”

“Lestrade.”

Okay. That had been easy. Now, go away. But the larger shoes stayed right where they were next to his.

“I… Uhm... wanted to thank you for the other night.”

John's eyes shot up in shock. Surely he hadn't meant it the way it sounded. Or maybe it was just him who had his mind in the gutter.

“For Sherlock, I mean. I expected the worse when he got here. I even hesitated calling you guys in, to be honest, but he hasn't a clue, does he?”

John shook his head, then cleared his throat. Lestrade had managed to put him at ease somehow.

“It was a close shave, but I managed to get him out. He… erm… finished his investigation there.”

“Ah? Good. Thanks.”

John knew he should shut up now, change the topic of conversation to the weather, like any self respecting Englishman, but John was burning with curiosity.

“You'll be going back, then?”

Lestrade sighed and leaned against the wall next to him.

“Jenny has been nagging me. I think she's hoping to get her hands on you again. She's not used to men turning her down.”

No wonder. She was hot. Might even be attractive if she kept her mouth shut. That woman had the most awful personality John had ever had the misfortune to meet, and he knew some pretty awful people. 

“I don't know how you put up with her,” John finally said.

He wanted to say more, how he deserved better, but they were only work acquaintances in the end. He didn't know him all that well and didn't want to sound presumptuous. Lestrade merely shrugged.

“We've been together for so long… I don't expect you to understand.”

John pressed his lips together. Lestrade was wrong. John had seen this pattern many times over the years, as a doctor and as Sherlock's assistant. It rarely ended well. Divorce in the best of cases, murder in the worse. He couldn't understand how Lestrade didn't see the similarities to his own situation.

“I'm sorry I got in the middle of it. Quite literally,” John apologized, locking eyes with him so he would know he meant it.

The DI’s cheeks turned pink. At least, he was as unsettled as him, even if he hid it better.

“I should be the one apologizing. I didn't mean to trap you in that room with us.” He chuckled humourlessly. “I think I panicked when I saw Sherlock coming our way. But I've been wondering…”

“Yeah?” John asked, not sure he wanted to hear the rest, but asking for it anyway because he couldn't read Lestrade’s expression for shit. Call it morbid curiosity.

“Why did you kiss me?”

John looked down at his shoes again as if they were the most fascinating thing ever. Lestrade really didn't beat around the Bush. John kind of liked that about him, but not so much when he was the focus of it.

“Sherlock might have come to investigate why your wife was screeching. That's all I could think of to shut her up.”

“Oh.”

John peered at him from under his lashes. He had almost sounded disappointed, but John had no time to explore that novel idea because Sherlock appeared out of nowhere, tugging on his sleeve as he walked off, spouting deductions at the DI.

They never spoke of it in the next month and things more or less returned to normal between them. Given enough time, they might even have come to laugh about that one time they made out while they hid from Sherlock, but fate had it that on the day John dropped by Lestrade’s office to return several files Sherlock had nicked, the DI’s wife was there to bring him a clean suit after a suspect had thrown a pot of paint at him in a bid for escape. It had to be the most awkward reunion in history. John froze like a rabbit caught in headlights when the two Lestrades turned to stare at him.

“You two know each other!” Jenny accused, as loud as he recalled her to be.

John cringed and hurried to close both the door and the blinds behind him. Had she no consideration for her husband’s position at the Yard? She could ruin his reputation if she wasn’t careful, but she didn’t seem to care for her husband’s pleas for her to lower her voice.

“We don’t know each other very well,” John cut in. “I don’t work here if that’s what you’re on about. I’m an outside consultant.”

It was stretching the truth a bit, but it seemed safer than fanning whatever wild theories were swimming in her head.

“Really? I have trouble believing that. Maybe I should ask one of your colleagues.”

“Jen. No.”

John couldn’t believe it, but her sly smile said it all. She wasn’t jealous or anything, but very subtly blackmailing her own husband, and himself by extension.

“What do you want?” John asked, eyes narrowed at her.

“I only want to get to know my husband's friends better. He so rarely brings them over.”

“Can you blame him?” John muttered.

She stared at him for a moment, then laughed.

“You’re funny. Why don’t you come around for dinner tonight? Just you, me and Greg. It’ll be fun. Eight sharp!”

She turned and brushed passed John, close enough that he could smell the shampoo on her long, blond locks. John closed the door behind her and let himself sink into a chair. He needed a minute to get over that she-devil. Lestrade was in much the same state, looking utterly defeated in his own chair as he ran his hands down his face.

“Jeez, John. I’m sorry. She always gets her way.”

“You need a divorce,” John finally snapped.

That woman was horrendous. He knew for a fact -well, from Sherlock’s deductions- that the Mrs had been treating him as poorly now as she’d ever had before… whatever arrangement they had now. 

“I love her.”

“Fine, then. You need a therapist.”

Lestrade winced, looked away, then began biting his nails. John had only ever seen him do that when he was at the end of his rope. Maybe, hopefully, he would actually consider it this time.

“Stop that,” John said more softly to make up for how harsh he’d been before.

He lowered Lestrade’s hand with his own before the poor guy bit all his nails to the quick, and patted it reassuringly.

“Don’t worry so much. I’ll be there. Maybe I can talk some sense into her. She can’t possibly be as pig-headed as Sherlock.”

But later that night, John realized he might as well talk to a wall. Jenny was infuriating in a way Sherlock had never managed to be, but he had the excuse of not always understanding “normal” people. Jenny, on the other hand, knew perfectly well what she was doing. Plus she kept looking at him as if he was the desert, which didn't help matters.

They did their best to reason with her not to make a scandal at the Yard but she scoffed at them.

“No one would care, but fine, I won't bring it up again at the Yard. Can't blame a girl for trying to get her hands on what her marriage needs.”

“Your marriage? Or you?” John snapped.

Jenny gave him a condescending smile, then looked between him and her husband.

“Do you know that I've never had such mind-blowing sex with my husband, ever, until we met you at the club? And we'd only been getting started.”

John looked at her in shock, but his gaze soon shifted towards Lestrade who looked as if he'd rather go hide under the table.

“There's something about you, John,” she continued. “That we  _ both _ find very enticing, which is a rarity, believe me. I have tried to open Greg up to other people for a long time, but he is so nitpicky… So yes, you're  _ exactly _ what our couple needs right now. Won't you help us?”

She gave him a pleading looked with pouty lips that stank of insincerity. John glanced at Lestrade, but he was carefully not meeting his gaze. 

“I'm not doing anything if Lestrade-” John trailed off, because there were two Lestrades here now. He took a deep breath and corrected himself, feeling as if he was crossing a line. “If Greg isn't in this 100%.”

Damn her, but he wasn't going to do anything without his consent. At the sound of his given name, Greg met his eyes and nodded solemnly.

“I'm in.”

Jenny didn't waste any time and took his hand to lead him upstairs. John kept glancing back to make sure Greg was following and hadn't made a run for it, but he was still there, even if he seemed reluctant, his feet heavy on every step. Maybe the D.I. was as nervous as he felt. The thought comforted him. John was so out of his depth here, he wasn't quite sure what to expect. Jenny stopped in the large bedroom but kept her back to him.

“Unzip me, John, if you please.”

John looked down the length of her. She had one of those perfectly round backsides that he knew took a lot of work to keep in shape, so maybe she didn't actually go to the gym just to fuck her instructors after all. John licked his lips and slowly unzipped her dress, making it last to push back the moment she would return the favour. John didn't really want to be here, he realized, and was only staying for Greg's sake, which was fucked up since it meant fucking his wife.

But the DI had said he was in… Did he mean it though, or did he feel as trapped as he was? Nothing to be done about that now. John tried to focus on his task instead. The only sound louder than the zipper coming down was Greg's laboured breathing behind him. John glanced back to see the DI looking flushed, lips parted and staring at his hands on his wife. John wasn't sure what was in it for Greg, but at least he didn't appear angry or jealous, so John relaxed some as he stepped back.

Jenny turned around, her dress sliding down to the floor, and she stepped out of it, completely naked already, like Aphrodite rising out of the shell. John never would have guessed she had been going commando tonight, but he supposed she didn't have much of a choice in a dress that tight, or she just knew she was going to have her way with him before the night was over and deemed underwear superfluous.

She did seemed eager to get on with it, her hand flying down his shirt, popping buttons out of their holes with uncanny speed. She paused suddenly and leaned forward to talk over his shoulder. She was taller than him, he only now realized. Something that always annoyed him and which he tried to avoid as much as possible when dating.

“Why don't you help your friend get comfortable, Greg?”

No answer came from behind, but John could feel the heat radiating from the inspector's body at his back when he stepped closer. John held his breath, not knowing what to expect, when large hands came around him to unbuckle his belt. It was insanely arousing, sandwiched as he was between the two Lestrades while they slowly undressed him. They were both so desirable, and eager, and wanted  _ him  _ of all people. His shirt went next, leaving him in his wifebeater while his belt slid slowly out of its loops.

“That's familiar,” Jenny said, her fingers dancing over the scar on his shoulder.

It took John a bit too long to get her meaning through his lust addled brain. He'd never known Lestrade, Greg, had been shot, but he should have expected it given his line of work. Jenny spun him around so he came face to face with the inspector. Greg brushed his wife's fingers away from his shoulder to look at the mess of scars, and John didn't mind his scrutiny so much because his eyes were understanding where hers had seemed mildly interested, as if he had an uncommon feature, like a tattoo.

“Why don't you show him yours, love,” she told her husband.

Even her endearment sounded empty. John was starting to really hate her guts, and Greg definitely deserved better than her as a companion. But he complied and shucked off his vest, tugging on his tie to pull it off. John decided to help him out because he looked so very lonely and miserable in that instant. He focused on the small buttons, slipping them out meticulously. He had never realized before just how tall and large the DI was. Funny he should notice by the size of his shirt. John then untucked the lapels from his trousers and his eyes widened at the bulge there. Apparently, Greg really was aboard with the insanity. John was so relieved, he tugged at his shirt with a bit too much enthusiasm and heard the fabric rip.

“Sorry about that,” John said.

He wasn’t.

“Uhm, stronger than he looks,” his wife purred as she continued undressing him, but John was focused solely on what he could see of Greg, looking for his own bullet wound. 

When he didn’t find it near where his own was, John looked up at Greg who gave him a lopsided smile and pulled his own wife-beater off over his head, letting it drop on the floor next to him. John found the scar immediately, it stood out against his pale skin just like his own did, but his was low on his flanc. A little more to the right and it would have torn his guts apart.

“You were damn lucky,” he said, voice husky. “You'll tell me about it?”

Greg nodded, his eyes flickering down his body because Jenny had continued undressing him where Greg had left off and, yep, there went his jeans and boxers, his erection bobbing between them. John bit his bottom lip. Cat was out of the bag now, and Greg was staring right at it, then his tongue darted out, roaming over his lips and John wanted to join in, but he had more work to do to get Greg naked, so he quickly undid his trousers, keeping eye-contact as he pulled them down. He didn't get to finish unwrapping him of the rest of his clothes though, because the Mrs got impatient from their lack of attention and pulled him back until he collapsed in bed. John groaned, more in annoyance than anything else, but not for long because her lips were on his cock and it felt so good, his brain suddenly went blank. 

Thankfully she was taking it slow or he would be done before anything had really started. He thought he had a good grip on it when another set of lips suddenly crashed over his.  _ Greg _ . His lips needy, demanding. John gave it his all, moaning into the kiss. The Mrs must have thought she earned it because she redoubled her efforts, which yeah, okay, that was good… Fucking amazing, actually. It was as if those two were competing or something. Not that he was complaining. He would have to be mad to complain. 

Greg left all too soon, though. John focused long enough on the room to find him behind his wife. Whatever he was doing to her, she was losing her coordination and her blow job turns sloppy until she gave up altogether. John was glad for the reprieve, because he didn't want this to be over too soon. Nevermind how reluctant he had been at first, John was now hoping for more. He watched the couple together, putting on a show a thousand times more erotic than any porn he had ever watched, her heavy breasts swinging inches above his wet cock. It was indecent and kind of hypnotizing. She was completely lost in her own world, too. Whatever her husband was doing to her had to be real good. Greg must have felt his gaze on him in that moment because he locked eyes with him and didn't once look away.

“I'm ready,” Jenny said, panting, looking dazed.

She scooted closer, blocking his sight of Greg, then straddled him, and to her credit, already had a condom in hand before he could ask her. John had a pretty good idea of how the next part was going down. He had never been in a threesome before, but he had seen more porn than he cared to admit, and he was not surprised when she sank down on his cock. John gasped. That moment when he penetrated another's body was always so intense, he lost himself to the sensations until he realized she was kissing him. He reciprocated, bucking his hips a couple of times so he was settled deep inside her, making her moan in appreciation. 

He didn't flinch when he felt Greg's hands on his legs. He had known to expect them, after all, and he accommodated him, pushing his legs further apart so he had enough room to settle behind his wife and fuck her other hole. John's breath hitched and he cursed when Greg penetrated his wife because what he had  _ not _ expected was to feel Greg's cock pushing into her, against his own cock, separated only by a thin membrane of skin, muscles, and a condom, but jeez, it was practically like he was fucking Greg, too, or rather that Greg was fucking him as well as his wife because John couldn't do shit from this end. Greg was the only one who had enough latitude to move and he set the rhythm, slow and loving. Oh God, just thinking about it… John's hands moved away from Jenny’s lovely breasts, and down her waist to keep her steady by the hips, but he found hands there already.

Greg's movements faltered for a second, so John put his hands over his, holding fast, and gave a small thrust upwards. He couldn't move much but Jenny moaned at the new sensations and Greg set his next thrust on his own.

Jenny shifted from the pounding she was taking, her weight falling more heavily over his bad shoulder. John tensed in anticipation of the pain, but Greg pulled her up and shifted her gently to his good shoulder. John wasn't even sure she noticed as she was little more than putty between them. Shifting her weight had brought Greg much closer to him, because with the next thrust, his balls slapped against his arse. They were quite literally balls to balls. 

Greg grunted. It was the first he heard out of him since they got in bed and Greg had his eyes fixed on him again on his next thrust, taking up the rhythm. The slap of skin on skin was salacious in an erotic way, but it didn't turn him on as much as Greg's grunts and the feel of his cock sliding against his in the tightness and warmth of his wife. God, it was too much to take in and Greg's dark eyes on him were the cherry on top.

They may both be fucking his wife, but she might as well not even be there now as far as he was concerned. So, apparently, John had developed something of a crush on the good detective inspector. Speaking of, he leaned down to kiss him again, but it was languid now, nothing of the earlier desperation, but it got as much as a reaction out of him.

Greg broke the kiss and leaned back, thrust harder, his face squeezed in concentration when Jenny came quite suddenly and there was a whole new array of sensations pulsing around his cock. Greg had frozen but gave a couple of deep thrust more and climaxed, mouth slack. Watching him come, feeling him come, was the little push that sent John over the edge.

As he lay there, trying to catch his breath and get his head back on straight again, John knew that had been, without a doubt, the best sex he'd ever had. The Lestrades had just ruined regular vanilla sex for him.

Jenny rolled off of him with a sated sigh, falling to his right. John would like nothing better than to cuddle down for a nap too, but for one, he had to dispose of his condom, for seconds, he was not willing to make this arrangement any more awkward than necessary, so he knew he had better bugger off as soon as he had cleaned up.


	3. Unimaginable

While he had been planning his escape, Greg was still kneeling at the foot of the bed, looking between his comatose wife and him. John gave him a tentative smile that he returned before standing and giving him a hand up. 

“The bathroom’s that way,” he said, pointing towards a dark doorway. “Feel free to use the shower.” 

John opened his mouth to answer, but here it was, the awkwardness which was bound to settle between two coworkers after a threesome with the other's wife. He nodded instead, and walked there with as much nonchalance as he could muster, but he could swear he could feel eyes following his every move.

John slipped the condom off and tied it before throwing it in the trash. He caught a glance of himself in the mirror, flushed all over and eyes bright, the very image of well-shagged. If he didn't shower, Sherlock was going to know exactly what he had been up to. But if he did, he might pick up the scent of Greg's soap or something. It was a no-win situation, but John would rather not implicate the DI since that had been the whole point of going along with this night.

No shower it was then, but he washed his hands and splashed some water on his face, then returned to the dark bedroom to pick up his clothes before exiting the room. He quickly got dressed in the corridor, then walked downstairs.

“Need a lift?”

John startled. He's assumed Greg had joined his wife in bed, but there he was in his boxers and an old shirt, making himself a sandwich, which was without a doubt the most adorable thing he could have been doing right now.

“No, I’ll manage,” John assured him without a smile. “Wouldn't mind a glass of water though.”

“Oh. Sure.”

Greg reached into a cabinet and poured him a glass. Pushing it in front of a stool at the kitchen counter. If that wasn't an invitation, John didn't know what was. He perched himself up on the stool, Greg taking the other one to bite into his sandwich.

“Want to share?” he asked, nudging his plate towards him.

John wasn't hungry. He hadn't done much in the bedroom, all things considered, but he started giggling because Greg asking him if he wanted to share his sandwich after he had just shared his wife was somehow the most hilarious thing he'd ever heard. Greg chuckled too.

“Yeah, poor phrasing that.”

John sipped his water, watching Greg over the brim, waiting for him to finish his snack.

“How are you?” he asked the DI.

“Shouldn’t I be the one asking that? I feel like I dragged you into this.”

“I’m not complaining.”

“No?”

John shook his head. 

“Don’t think I didn't notice you avoiding that question, detective inspector.”

Greg's breath hitched at the use of his title. Interesting.

“It was easier with you,” he confided. “I think it's because I trust you. But this whole thing... The sex club, the open marriage, I don't think I can do it for much longer… it's not me.”

John sighed.

“Didn't think it was. You're the last person I expected to see at that club and you didn't even look like you wanted to be there… you deserve better than to be treated that way.”

That he deserve better than Jenny went unsaid, but his meaning was clear enough, and the last time he had said it had not gone so well so he kept his mouth shut for once. Having said his fill, or as much as he dared, John put his glass down and grabbed his jacket, making a swift exit.

Sherlock was in the kitchen when he got back home, one eye screwed shut while the other peered at his slide. John didn't think he had noticed his arrival, but then, he might not even have realized he had been gone. So much for worrying about Sherlock finding out about Lestrade. Shrugging, John made his way up to his bed and made good on that nap he had been wishing for earlier.

He didn't escape his friend’s scrutiny for long though. The next morning, Sherlock cornered him in the kitchen, inspecting him much like he had his slide last night, turning his face this way and that.

“A threesome, John? Really? And a man, too? You might want to rethink your not-gay routine. Anyone with half a brain cell can see you have been thoroughly kissed by a taller man with a couple days worth of stubble.”

John could feel his face flush red, but he waited, half-expecting, half-dreading for Sherlock to drop Lestrade's name like a bomb, but that was the extent of his deductions for once. Hopefully, Sherlock found the topic of sex so pedestrian he hadn't looked any further. Forcing himself to scowl instead of looking relieved, John pushed Sherlock out of his personal space.

“Bit not good, Sherlock. Privacy, remember?”

Sherlock huffed and strutted away in a billow of blue dressing gown, fleeing in fear of another lecture on the subject no doubt. Smirking, John checked another win in his column against Sherlock and made breakfast.

John didn't think he would see Greg for a while after their night together since they had worked on a case together just a couple of days prior, and the D.I. didn't usually call them in too often, but here he was again, trying not to stare at Greg like he knew what he looked like naked, the sounds he made when he fucked, the face he made when he came… Nope. There was no way John could pull off that level of acting.

“Sorry, Sherlock, I’m not feeling all that well… I'll just wait for you outside, yeah?”

The consulting detective huffed in annoyance and waved him off while he started bickering with Anderson once more. Crime scenes were really starting to look similar from one to the next. Anytime now, Donovan was going to butt in, calling Sherlock a freak, and Greg would have to intervene before it escalated… which is why he was surprised when Greg caught up to him before he made it out of the building.

“John! Wait up!”

John looked behind him, Sherlock's deep baritone echoing down the stairwell.

“Shouldn't you be up there in case they murder each other?” John asked. 

“They're going to have to learn to play nice sooner or later,” Greg replied with a shrug. “Maybe they'll get it out of their system.”

John wished he could get Greg out of his system. Just looking at him gave him flashbacks of that night, and he could feel a blush creep up his neck again. God, it was embarrassing. He was a grown man, a soldier, not some bloody smitten teenager.

“Doubt it,” John muttered, trying to inch away, but Greg took another step towards him. Close. Too close. What did he want? Why had he come running after him. “Wha-”

Greg answered by pressing his lips to his, pinning his body against the wall. John was too surprised to do anything at first. They were on a crime scene. Everyone, his colleagues,  _ Sherlock…  _ any one of them could walk in on their snogging session. But far from being deterred, the idea turned him on, just as Greg was with his clever tongue and strong hands. John was a hot mess by the time Greg gave him a few second to gather his wits. 

“What… why… Are you  _ mad _ ?” John didn't even know what he wanted to ask anymore, swept away by the insanity of his actions.

“Maybe,” Greg replied against his lips. “Couldn't stop thinking about you. I don't even need Sherlock on this case. I just wanted an excuse to see you.”

John's heart skipped a beat. First, because that was probably the sweetest thing he had ever been told, but also because that meant Sherlock was going to storm down any second now to insult Greg, his intelligence, and that of his ancestors ten generations back. As if on cue, someone did in fact stomp down the stairs, so John pulled Greg after him down the corridor leading out back and hid out of view under the stairwell.

“Give me your phone,” John said, extending a hand.

With a bemused smile, Greg handed it over and John put his number in.

“Just call me next time. Sherlock is going to be in one of his moods now.”

“Really? You don't mind?” 

“Mind? Do I look like I mind?” John asked, pressing closer to Greg so he would feel exactly what he was doing to him. 

The DI's tongue darted across his lips as he looked down at him. John tugged at his tie to bring him just within kissing distance.

“No can't say you do,” Greg said. 

“Good.” 

John let go of his tie and walked away, smiling wickedly when he heard Greg call him a tease. If that didn't get the D.I. to give him a call very soon, he didn't know what would. When John stepped outside, he quickly grabbed Sherlock and walked him down the road before he spotted Greg, even if it meant he was now the one subjected to his rant about the Yarders' intelligence or lack thereof. If only Sherlock knew he had just been used by the very man whose intelligence he was slandering. Even John was feeling stupidly flattered Greg had risked Sherlock’s wrath just to see  _ him _ . His ex-girlfriends usually did the opposite, fleeing as soon as Sherlock opened his mouth, so John wasn't about to let go of this gem. It was just another point to add to the list of "Why the hell didn't I see Greg this way before?" 

So when Greg texted him to meet up for a pint the next day after work, John couldn't curb his enthusiasm and replied immediately to confirm he would be there. Only… It wasn't like they were  _ really _ going out on a date, not with Greg being married. He wasn't the sort to cheat and John didn't want to be the mistress. But the two of them had technically already slept together, so what did that make them? Two thirds of a relationship? Part-time lovers? A whole fucking mess, more like, and they did talk about the woman who had forced them together, which led to the night they'd spent together, which led to more drinking than was wise. 

After a couple of hours of this, and in an effort to honour their earlier agreement to be the better men in this situation and remain just friends, John decided it was time they made their way home. He was quite impressed with himself to make such a responsible decision while being so completely pissed. Greg looked just about as drunk, what with the way he was giggling at every little thing and flirting outrageously at him. Things didn't go quite according to plan however, because they were only getting closer as they left the pub. At least in there, they'd had the table as a physical barrier to separate them, but outside, in the crisp air of a cloudless night, it was only right they huddled together for warmth as they walked side by side. And so what if they brushed shoulders more often than not? He did that with Sherlock sometimes. It didn't mean anything. But Sherlock never looked at him the way Greg was, and he most certainly never said his name with such longing or reached for his hand. 

John gasped in surprise then chuckled when Greg pulled him in the first alley he found to push him up against the wall, peppering stubble kisses against his neck. 

"I shouldn't want you this much," he rumbled against his ear with only a slight slur, as if his desire was sobering him up some. Or maybe it was just the fresh air. 

John shouldn't either. Not gay, technically. Greg was married. They were friends and colleagues. It was a recipe for disaster, but his beer addled brain was beating his logic to a pulp and John pulled Greg's face down for a kiss, moaning at how hot his mouth and breath is against him, at the taste of beer, at the feel of his stubble and strong hands holding him in place. He definitely loved that. 

Unfortunately, he couldn't pursue that novel thought further, because some idiots started shouting at them. John tried to peer at the figure standing at the mouth of the alley but could only make out a silhouette standing against a streetlight. 

"Go to hell, ya faggots!" 

John blamed his lack of reaction on the beers. It was as if he was seeing the man lift his arm in slow motion, and before he could register that the glint that caught the light was a glass bottle, Greg had already shifted in front of him to protect his idiot self from the impact. The bottle shattered, glass raining down around their feet as the sound of laughter grew dimmer. 

Adrenalin now pumping in his veins and dissipating the fluffy cloud of alcohol he'd been floating on, John was half-tempted to run after the bastard and teach him a lesson, but the sound of Greg cursing as he held his hand against his forehead made him stay. 

"Let me see," John said and pushed his hand away gently. 

The bottle must have hit Greg square on the brow because it was bleeding profusely. Nothing too severe, it was just one of those place that did, like the nose or ears, but he would still need a few stitches. 

"Let's go to the hospital to have you sorted out," John said after he'd batted Greg's hand away so he'd stop poking at it since there might still be glass shards in the gash. 

"Absolutely not," Greg snorted. "It's just a scratch."

"I'm the doctor here," John argued. "You need to get it cleaned up and at least a couple of stitches. 

"Tis just a flesh wound," Greg said with a chuckle. 

"You're an idiot," John said fondly. "Fine. Let's go to Baker Street and I'll take care of that for you."

Greg teased him for the next few minutes about him luring him home for nefarious purposes, and John knew he was just trying to lighten the mood after what had just happened but he couldn't shake off the anger. 

"You shouldn't have protected me," he said. 

"I would have been hit anyway. Would it be better if we were both injured?" 

"I'd feel less guilty," John muttered. 

"Whose being an idiot now?"

John huffed, but he had a point. He shouldn't be misdirecting his anger, especially not at Greg, so he kept his mouth shut and walked briskly to 221B, relieved they hadn't been too far when Greg got hit because he was starting to draw curious glances from passers-by with all the blood covering half his face. This kind of shit is exactly why he had refrained from exploring this side of his sexuality when he was younger. He'd almost forgotten about all the hurdles Harry had had to deal with: the stares, the pointed fingers, the constant insults and vicious attacks, the well-meaning advice from relatives and friends that always sent Harry into a rage because she couldn't just "change" her preferences, not even if she tried dating a smaller man, an effeminate man and whatever other crap had been thrown her way. It wasn't a switch. She was only attracted to women. She hadn't had the option. 

John had and took the easy way out. Then it became a habit. There were more than enough women out there he was attracted to, so why bother? 

John threw a sideways glance at Greg who was humming absent mindedly as he followed him up the steps. It had to be a whole lot worse for him, but here he was, looking perfectly at peace with himself. He wondered how he did it? How he was so accepting of the circumstances and what had just happened?

John pushed those thoughts back into a corner of his mind as he pushed the door to his flat open. He never knew what to expect when coming back home and had taken the habit to proceed with caution after the time he had slipped on a sheet of oil covering the floorboards. Mrs Hudson hab been livid and he'd had to use a cane again for weeks. Never again. 

Tonight, the flat was suspiciously dark and quiet. 

"Sherlock not home?" Greg asked. 

"He was. Might still be. Be careful where you step," he advised as he flipped the lights on. 

There was more chaos strewn around than usual and Sherlock might actually  _ be _ under one of those piles. It wouldn't be the first time, so he tread carefully and left Greg sitting safely on the sofa to go in search of the first aid kit he always kept well supplied in the bathroom, only to find it empty save for a few plasters. 

"Sherlock!" he bellowed, striding out of the bathroom and waving the empty box angrily over his head. "You have  _ g _ ot to be fucking kidding me! Sherlock!"

There was no answer though, not even a pile stirring. John sighed at his bad luck that night, ready to give up if it weren't for Greg's bleeding face. Finding a clean cloth, he passed it under the cold tap to at least make him not look like some extra out of a horror movie. 

"Do you have a first aid kit at your place?" he finally asked. 

Given Greg's sour expression, he was just as reluctant to have John anywhere near his wife, although probably for different reasons, but he nodded and soon, they were sitting in the back of a cab, tension thick in the air. Their cabbie seemed relieved to see them go if his screeching tires were anything to go by, and they exchanged ridiculous hypotheses of what the hell the poor man had thought they were. Hitmen like that movie with Tom Cruise? Criminals on the run? Or just lovers "having a bit of a domestic" as Mrs Hudson would put it? 

Their banter quieted down as soon as Greg slipped the key in his front door and pushed open the door. The house was dark and quiet, but at this hour, in a normal people's home, it was nothing surprising. John raised his eyebrows at him in question and Greg pointed up before making a silencing gesture then pointing at the couch. John did as he was told, relaxing into the plush cushions as he waited for his host to fetch the kit. 

"You sure you can sew straight?" Greg asked when he returned. 

_ Straight?  _ John snickered at his poor choice of words once more but took out a needle to hold it up. 

"Yeah steady hand. See?" 

"Not sure… you moving, or is it me?" Greg said, narrowed eyes focused on his hand.

"Might be the couch," John shrugged, and he knew deep down that didn't make sense and maybe he really should not be sewing people's face up when he was still a bit tipsy, especially not such a pretty face. "Maybe you're right. We can still head back to the hospital. With any luck we'll get the same cabbie and we can freak him out some more." 

Greg chuckled and shook his head. 

"No way. Go on. Do it. I trust you."

"It's your face," John teased, but he knew he could do a good job of it, even if seeing Greg so close was a bit distracting, which was only made worse because the other man kept his eyes on him the whole time. 

"Ouch!" Greg protested after John had pulled a glass shard out. 

John apologized, but immediately followed that by a thorough wash of the gash with alcohol which made his patient yelp in pain once more. 

"Sorry," John repeated, but now came the threaded needle. 

"I think I'm going to be sick," Greg muttered. 

"Just close your eyes. Imagine you're somewhere else." 

"Uhm. I can think of somewhere I'd want to be." 

John felt his face flush at the way he'd said that, but bit down on his lip to get his mind out of the gutter, then he began stitching as carefully and meticulously as he had ever done before, until they were interrupted. 

"Do you have to be so loud when you get back?" Jenny muttered as she shuffled in, one hand rubbing the sleep out of her eyes, before really taking in the scene. Her eyes widened as she stared at John with his needle paused mid air while her husband laid back in the cushions, trying to look at her without moving his head. 

" Greg? Oh my God, what happened?" 

John was impressed. She actually sounded like she cared. Maybe she did, deep, deep down under all her selfish bitchiness. 

"Nothing. Just some drunkard," Greg evaded, shifting in his seat. 

"Keep still," John said as he held his head in one hand and pushed the needle through one last time with the other.

Greg gritted his teeth, then relaxed when it was done and stood to inspect himself in a mirror hanging nearby, turning his head this way and that. Jenny joined him there to look for herself while John closed the kit and went in search of a bin in the nearby kitchen. He felt a lot like a third wheel tonight and couldn't wait to flee back home until he heard an argument break next door. . 

"Do you even hear yourself, Jen!?" Greg shouted loud enough that John startled. "Jesus, you're such a slut!" 

He sounded more angry than drunk, so John ran back to the living room in case things got out of hand, just in time to see Jenny slap her husband right across the cheek. 

  
  
  



	4. Unbreakable

A stunned silence followed the loudest slap John had ever witnessed, which was saying a lot with a friend like Sherlock who got slapped by women on a semi-regular basis. The frozen picture of the three of them lasted just long enough for a red handprint to appear in Stark contrast on Greg's pale cheek. Then, the spell broke, and Greg stomped out without another word, pausing only long enough to grab his coat and keys. John hurried after him and closed the door before Jenny had the bad idea to follow after them, because it could only escalate from there. For now, the explosive couple needed time and space. 

The walk was frantic but silent. John thought it was better to give the other man some time to cool off, although he had to admit he was curious as to what his wife could have said in the few seconds he was out of the room to finally make his friend snap. It had to be bad, because John couldn't remember the D.I. ever losing his temper like that with  _ anyone _ , not even Anderson, not even  _ Sherlock _ . Not to mention Greg had always defended his wife before, finding all sort of excuses for her appalling behaviour… 

But not tonight. Could be it was just the alcohol speaking, but John wasn't all that drunk now, not after everything that had happened since they left the pub, so he doubted that Greg, who had about as much to drink as him while being much larger, was inebriated enough to blame it on the booze. 

Suddenly, Greg stopped walking and whirled around, seeming surprised to find him there, then relieved. 

"Sorry," he mumbled. "Thought I'd left you behind." 

John knew he should feel slighted, but with the night Greg was having, he couldn't really blame him. John smiled, if a bit lopsided, and shrugged. 

"I wasn't going to stay behind."

_ Not with the harpy,  _ he thought to himself. 

" _ She _ wouldn't have minded." Greg's shoulders sagged, as if all the energy that had been propelling him forward into the night, as far away as possible from his wife, had suddenly burned out. "I can't believe she said that…" He passed a hand through his silver hair. "She's so… She… Do you know what she said?" 

John shook his head in morbid fascination, wanting to know what she had said, yet not at the same time. 

"She said she'd never had a doctor before. There I am bleeding from the head, hoping she cares about me, just a little, and she has the nerve to talk about her fucking collection. Urgh!" he threw his arms up in the air. "She really doesn't give a fuck about me. Not one. And then slapping me for telling it like it is? I'm done. I'm just done with her. If I so much as try to call her, just hit me over the head until I stop being an idiot."

"I'll hold you to that," John warned, a bit dubious Greg wouldn't change his mind after a good night's sleep to find his wife excuses once more. "But at least you told her how you really feel for once. Maybe she'll realise what a bully she is..." 

Greg snorted. 

"Can't argue with that, but most of the guys at the Yard say the same about their wives." 

John seriously doubted most of them really meant it, but he nodded in understanding anyway. Luck was on his side for once because he managed to stop a passing cab on the first try. 

"Come on. You might as well crash at 221B, if you don't mind Sherlock."

They had barely walked in through the door, at the ungodly hour of two in the morning, when Sherlock loomed over them. Well, over him, because Greg matched him in height and just rolled his eyes at his theatrics. John sometimes forgot Greg had known Sherlock years before little old him even came into the picture. 

"You," Sherlock said, eyes narrowed at Greg, as if accusing him of some terrible crime. "I should have deduced as much. Is that why you called me out on that pathetic excuse for a murder the other day? Just so you could see…" his friend then looked down his nose at him. "Your… paramour?" 

"Is that even a real word?" Greg snarked right back. 

"Don't do it again," Sherlock snapped and walked towards the kitchen before turning around one last time. "And don't make too much noise. I'm in the middle of an experiment." 

"That was positively civil," John commented as he wondered whether Sherlock had actually meant that last barb the way it sounded, or if he was just as bad as Greg's wife. 

_ Get you mind out of that gutter,  _ John admonished himself. 

"I think he approves," Greg said. 

"That would be a first. He usually scares off my girlfriends."

"You saying I'm your girlfriend?" Greg asked, his uninjured brow raised comically high. 

He was having him on, so John gave him a wry smile. As much as he would love to deepen his relationship with Greg, tonight was not the night for that. 

"You would know if you were. I'd be wining and dining you like the perfect gentleman I am. As it is, I only have my bed to offer."

Greg's eyebrows rose. 

"To sleep," John added. "Like I said. I'm a gentleman."

Greg snorted, then shrugged and headed up the stairs to his room. He knew the place better than most with all the "drug busts" he'd done over the years. John smiled at how at home he seemed, and yeah okay, maybe at how perfect the angle was from down here to ogle the D.I.'s shapely behind. 

"You coming?" Greg called from the top of the landing. 

John was about to reply when Sherlock made a shushing noise from the kitchen. 

Surprised his room-mate really did have an experiment going on in there and not wanting to risk asphyxiating from toxic fumes in the middle of the night, John gave up on his previous idea to sleep on the sofa and ran up the stairs. 

"It's gonna be a tight fit," Greg commented as he examined his bed. "I hope you like to cuddle." 

"Just cuddling, mind," John said. 

Greg teased him, but he seemed to relax some, and soon, they were both in their shirts and briefs, then under the sheets. Greg wrapped around him like the big spoon he was, but John didn't mind. Actually, he could get used to it. It was nice being the little spoon for once, where it felt warm and safe, so he had to wonder why so few of his exes had liked to cuddle this way. He, for one, loved it, but that had probably more to do with the guy behind him than the position itself. 

Somewhere along the way since that night at the sex club, Greg had become more than a friend, more than a mere crush and one night stand. The guy made his heart thump like it was twenty years younger, and he wasn't so blind that he didn't recognize the feelings he had for him went deeper than they usually did for anyone. Greg had bloody well stolen his heart. A shame his own was taken, now broken, but he'd wait. He'd wait for as long as it took. 

The next morning, a shout woke John up and he had to stomp down on his instinct to draw his gun as he recalled he had Greg in his bed, and wasn't that a nice thought to wake up to. Rolling onto his back, John blinked the sleep out of his eyes to find Sherlock’s large nostrils peering down at them. 

"Yeah, sorry Greg. Forgot to warn you, he does that sometimes. One of my girlfriends called the cops once." 

"Not your brightest catch," Sherlock commented. "Tea, John. I need tea. Now." 

Greg chuckled against him, his breath warm against his neck, sending goosebumps down his spine. 

"Looks like I'm not the only one with a demanding wife."

"Idiot," Sherlock muttered before his silky bathrobe twirled around and glided down the stairs, presumably with him inside. 

John knew he had better make the damn tea before his flatmate somehow set the kettle on fire, again, so he reluctantly sat up and stretched his arms, feeling his shoulder the worse for wear. 

"Told you it would be a bit of a tight fit," Greg murmured in his ear as he began massaging both his shoulders. 

John moaned and leaned into the touch, his resolve to make tea all but forgotten when Greg's lips began trailing down his neck. That is, until the smoke detector began blaring its shrill warning from downstairs. 

"Damnit, Sherlock! Not again!" John bellowed as he sprung up from the bed and ran down the flight of stairs. 

The kitchen was like stepping into the foggy Highlands of Scotland. He couldn't see the table, or even the window. 

"Sherlock?" 

A muffled cough was the only answer he got, but enough to worry the hell out of him. Pulling his shirt over his nose, John dashed towards where the window was  _ supposed _ to be, but he tripped midway and fell, head first into the counter. Realizing he must have tripped over Sherlock, John pushed past his daze and gripped the counter to heave himself up. The smoke was thicker here, choking him even through his shirt. He patted around blindly for the window latch, yanking it open when he found it. The white smoke spiralled out, leaving clearer air behind. Enough that he could see Greg had followed him and was pulling Sherlock out of the kitchen by his armpits. John picked up his legs, knowing how heavy a limp body was, and they staggered their way into the living room where they dumped Sherlock on the sofa. Greg ran back to close the door to the kitchen and managed to shut up the bloody smoke detector. Dead useful thing though. Having no idea what had caused the smoke, and finding Sherlock’s breathing to be a bit shallow, John called for an ambulance immediately, just in case. He'd rather hear Sherlock rant about his mother-henning than have his death on his hands.

Then Greg returned to fuss over the bump on his head. It didn't hurt much, but it was nice to be cared for for once. It was only when the medics had come and gone with a still unconscious Sherlock, as well as his kettle to find out what he'd inhaled, that John let himself flop down in the now vacant sofa. Greg joined him soon after with two cups of tea.

"I wouldn't use anything from the kitchen for awhile," John said with a wary eye on the proffered cup. "God knows what he was experimenting on…" 

"Your landlady dropped these off, actually. She didn't sound too pleased with Sherlock."

Accepting the tea, because Mrs Hudson did make a mean brew if he said so himself, a few sips made the morning seem not so bad after all. They would probably laugh about it in a few months. 

"Typical morning?" Greg asked. 

"You'd be surprised. Thanks for the help. You should stay over more often." 

"Might have to." Greg grimaced as he glanced over at his silent phone.

"No news?" 

Not that John really cared about Jenny, but Greg was obviously worried as he shook his head in the negative. 

"She must be really pissed. I haven't had the silent treatment in forever." 

John shrugged. He couldn't bring himself to give Greg advice to patch things up between them, or reassure him she would get over it eventually. The words would not only be empty of any sincerity, but it would be highly hypocritical of him when even Greg knew he couldn't stand her. John felt like such a selfish berk to wish his marriage ill, or any marriage for that matter. He never imagined himself to be a homewrecker. On the other hand, Greg deserved so much better… Torn between what was right and what was best, John settled on remaining silent on the matter.

Greg left for work not long after. There was a fleeting moment at the door where neither was sure how to say goodbye. There were so far past handshakes, but given the situation, anything beyond that didn't feel right either. They settled for an awkward smile and wave goodbye, which John immediately regretted, thumping his head against the wall to drive the point home. He had thought of thirteen better ways to part by the time he was at the hospital to check on Sherlock when he received a text from Greg. 

_ I already regret not kissing you goodbye. - GL _

John chuckled, earning himself his friend's ire, but since Sherlock was already pissed at him for calling an ambulance, he ignored him easily. Mycroft was visiting as well to lecture his little brother on the proper use of kettles anyway. 

_ I regretted it the second you walked out. - John _

They exchanged texts all through morning. It was so much easier than talking face to face, although they both agreed they did need to have a serious conversation, about them, about Jenny, about the future… They were making plans for that night when Greg suddenly stopped texting. If it had been anyone else, John would have brushed it off. Maybe he was busy, maybe his battery died… But Greg was a D.I. who dealt with the worse London had to offer, so he couldn't help but feel increasingly worried with every passing hour. 

Finally, John made his way to Scotland Yard. He might be making a fool of himself, but at least he would have a clear conscience. He spotted Donovan on his way to Greg's office and she seemed pretty normal, so he wasn't all that surprised to find Greg at his desk. Puzzled though. Even more so when Greg froze, then paled upon seeing him there. Before John could enter, he shot up from his desk and headed straight for him. He gripped his arm without a word then began pulling him towards a little used office full of papers and old files, ignoring his protests and questions all the while. 

Greg closed the door and let go of him. John had no idea what to think of his unusual behaviour. He certainly hadn't brought him here for anything he might enjoy judging by the expression on his face. 

"You shouldn't be here," Greg finally said. 

John raised an eyebrow. 

"I shouldn't?" 

He was almost a fixture at the Yard. No one had batted an eye seeing him stride through the place. Greg grumbled and passed a hand through his hair. 

"What's going on? You stopped answering all of a sudden and… Well, I got worried," John admitted. 

Greg's grimace turned into a soft smile, then back again. 

"I don't deserve you." 

"I don't? Whoever…" John trailed off. "Jenny," he concluded. "What did she tell you? Oh, wait. She blackmailed you again, didn't she? She's not even keeping her word. Not that I'm all that surprised."

Greg looked at him funny then chuckled humourlessly. 

"Sherlock has a bad influence on you, you know?" 

"Depends on your point of view. So… You don't want to see me anymore? Is that it?" 

He was being a bit unfair, but he knew he had to push Greg a little if he wanted to know the truth. Otherwise, he would never open up. 

"No! No, it's not like that. I mean it is… I'm sorry. I'm being unfair to you. Jenny did threaten to leak the whole story to the Yard, about the sex-club, and you. She won't even hear of a divorce, or an open marriage on my end. If I want you, I have to share you with her, and I can't do that to you. But I can't sacrifice my career either, not even for you. I'm sorry."

John mulled it over, then nodded. It's not like Greg was left with much of a choice. Jenny  _ really _ wanted him to be miserable, and John wasn't so selfish to make him abandon the job he loved. 

"So you're stuck," John concluded. 

"Pretty much. Under normal circumstances, I wouldn't have treated you the way I have, but if all I can do is keep you away from Jenny, then that's what I'll do."

John had to admit the harpy had won. She wasn't here right this moment however, so John took a step forward and put his arms around Greg, sighing into his chest. He was going to miss this. 

"You know she's crazy, right?" he asked. 

"Yeah, I'm seeing that now."

John left soon after, keeping an eye out for the crazy wife because she was on the warpath apparently and any excuse would be good enough for her to unleash her Fury. 

John took double shifts at the medical practice and nudged Sherlock into accepting more cases. Anything to keep his mind off of Greg. It was hard enough pretending they were just colleagues again, like before, whenever they worked a case for the Yard. Greg didn't seem to be doing any better either, so he hoped Jenny was happy with herself. 

"Could you stop… Whatever it is you're doing?" Sherlock snapped one day, himself in a foul mood. 

"What… I'm not doing anything," John protested. 

"My point exactly." 

"Ha! That's rich coming from you. You've been moping around in your pajamas for the last two days. At least I'm dressed."

"Moping? Is that what you're doing?" 

John didn't answer, but yeah, maybe he was a little. No work today. Sarah had made him take a week off. A whole week. And Sherlock didn't have any case going on. 

"Did you and Graham break up?" 

"Who?" 

"Lestrade. I thought you two were an item?"

John sighed. There was no way Sherlock could understand the inner workings of the sort of relationship they'd had. They hadn't even technically been together, or not a couple at least. Not really. John sighed again as he thought of what might have been. 

"Oh, for God's sake!" Sherlock exclaimed. "Do something about it. Send him flowers or coffee, and apologise for whatever idiocy you did." 

"Why do you assume I'm responsible?" 

"Your stellar track record." 

"Which you are mostly responsible for."

"Only mostly." 

John tried to ignore Sherlock after that, but he wouldn't stop  _ staring  _ and he started to fidget in his seat, wondering what the hell Sherlock was for wading from him that seemed so damn interesting to someone who got so easily bored. 

"I'm going to the Yard," Sherlock stated after what felt like an eternity. 

"What? Why? Is there a case?" 

"In a manner of speaking." 

John stared at Sherlock. That sly tone was very unlike him, but it promised nothing good. The berk was even getting dressed now while John paced in front of his door. 

"Sherlock," he warned when he finally came out, suited up with his curls set in an orderly mess. 

"What? I'm going to inquire after my good friend Lestrade." 

John stepped in front of him when he tried to side step him. 

"Good friend? What's his first name?" 

Sherlock face went blank for a second. 

"George." 

"No." John stood his ground. Sherlock would have to pick him up if he wanted to get through the door. "Please, Sherlock. There's nothing to be done about it."

"Come now, John. You should know there's always a way." He got into his space, nose to nose. "Always." 

A shiver ran down John's spine. It looked like Sherlock was on the warpath too now, and if anyone could find a solution to Jenny's blackmail, it would be Sherlock. Greg might not be too happy about him telling Sherlock about what had been going on, but now that the consulting detective had his mind set on it, he would find out one way or another. 

So they sat down for tea, like civilized people, and John told him the whole sordid affair. In the end, Sherlock seemed rather nonplussed, so maybe he would just give up. 

"It's rather simple. Fight fire with fire." 

"Meaning…?" 

But Sherlock was out the door before he could get a straight answer out of him, just an injunction to trust him. 

So he would. 

His trust in his friend didn't prevent him from pacing back and forth in front of the window, knocking over the same pile of books three times, or checking his phone compulsively for news of whatever he was up to. Hours passed and the day turned darker as the rain clouds that had been gathering a ice the city finally burst with torrential rain. 

And still no news. Only Sherlock stern "trust me" was stopping him from calling him or going out to search for him. So, when he finally heard footsteps rushing up the stairs, John went to meet him with a towel in hand so he wouldn't catch his death, only to freeze when he knocked at the door. 

Sherlock didn't knock, much less at his own door. A client then? Or one of Sherlock many enemies. John cautiously opened the door, ready to strike, but dropped the towel when he saw Greg standing there, dripping wet but sporting a goofy smile he hadn't seen in too long. John picked up the towel and handed it to Greg who exchanged it for a bunch of rolled up papers he'd been holding. 

"Erm… Sherlock out I'm afraid," John said, stepping aside. 

"Oh, I know. Just saw him, in fact." 

"Ah. I hope he's not been causing to much trouble." 

"Trouble? Depends for who, I suppose," Greg chuckled before nodding at the papers he was holding. He set the towel to dry on a chair, then took off his wet coat to hand on another. 

Curious, John didn't wait to be told twice and unrolled the damp papers, the word "divorce" jumping out at him immediately. Frozen in shock and fledgling hope, John read it from top to bottom. 

"So it's official?" John asked in awe. 

Sherlock must have pulled some strings, although he couldn't believe he would have gone so far as to owe Mycroft a favour just for him. 

"I'm a free man," Greg confirmed with a nod. 

"How?" 

"Looks like my  _ ex-wife  _ angered quite a few influential and wealthy women with her dalliances, and Sherlock blackmailed her into signing the divorce papers I'd been keeping in my desk. No clue how he found them."

John laughed. Fight fire with fire. He should have thought of it himself. 

"Anyway. He said there would be a hefty fee to pay for his services..." 

"Oh?" John was surprised. It was very unlike Sherlock to even remember to ask his clients for payment. That's one of the reasons he needed an assistant. 

Greg nodded emphatically and took the papers out of his hands, setting them flat on the table next to them. 

"Yep. He told me, and I quote, "to make sure you weren't moping around the flat anymore." Any idea how I can achieve that?"

John grinned and tugged at his tie until they were at eye level. Greg's were sparkling like mad. 

"I can think of a way or two," John said in a breath, his lips meeting Greg's. 

For the first time, he felt no hint of guilt behind it, no self-loathing, no doubt, just wonder at how lucky he was to have both of these men in his life. No more moping, he promised himself. His only goal for the foreseeable future was to give Greg what he deserved: love, happiness and anything in between. 


End file.
